


Sunsets

by Gfics



Series: Gallavich Drabbles/One Shots [2]
Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:53:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9074746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gfics/pseuds/Gfics
Summary: Based on this prompt:fic prompt?? inspired by a dream i just had?? ok so mickey writes poetry. and he's really GOOD. mostly prose, because he thinks rhyming is stupid. but he writes his good poetry UNDER some really BAD poetry, so that when people see the bad poetry they'll stop reading. but one day ian finds it and keeps reading and the poems are all about how much he loves ian and all the little things & his real feelings about love & whatever. i guess season 2 when ian is trying to figure out if mickey likes him





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this prompt wasn't originally for me, but I had reblogged it and anon so kindly asked me to write it, so here it is :)  
> Also I tweaked the prompt a little because I wanted this to be fluffier than s2 Mickey was really capable of acting, this is set sometime after 5x12 in a no breakup world.

Ian hadn’t meant to snoop. Okay, he had meant to snoop. He hadn’t, however, meant to snoop on this particular thing. It had all started innocently…or maybe not so _innocently_. But with good intentions all the same.  
\---  
“You ever feel like we’re getting boring?” Ian had asked one day. They had just gotten done with their fourth round, which, admittedly, was probably the _opposite_ of boring, so he didn't blame the "what-the-fuck-are-you-on" look his boyfriend immediately shot him in response. "You crazy?" Mickey's eyebrows shot up in response. " Okay, maybe not _boring_ per se, but like we’ve fallen into a routine,” Ian corrected.  
“That so bad?” Mickey asked, propping himself up on his hand to get a better view of the red head.  
“No,” Ian shrugged, “But maybe we could, I dunno, spice things up?”  
“Like what? I top you or something? ‘Cause I dunno if I’m down for ever doing that again,” Mickey laughed.  
“No… although that could be fun-” Ian cut himself off to laugh at the downright disgusted face Mickey pulled at the mere idea, “but remember those beads you had? The ones that looked like a rosary for giants,” Ian recalled.  
“Yeah…” Mickey seemed despondent at the mention of the toy. Probably had something to do with the events that transpired shortly after their introduction the last time he had suggested using them. Ian placed a comforting hand in his boyfriend’s raven colored locks, petting mindlessly at his scalp. He knew it was a touchy subject, he didn’t have to ask to know he should move the conversation forward.  
“Well maybe we could try something like that some time?” Ian offered up.  
“Sure man, I got plenty of shit stashed away somewhere. Just gotta remember where I hid it, haven’t needed it for awhile when I got your nine-inch ass,” Mickey smirked.  
\---  
It was with that notion that Ian had decided to go on a quest of sorts for the fabled sex toys. So, although lacking in permission, Ian’s snooping wasn’t exactly unwelcomed. At first. That was, until he stumbled upon something totally opposite from the type of personal that something could be from dildos, albeit still private.  
Ian had been rummaging around the top of the shelf nailed up so high in the closet that its surface was above even his string bean ass head, his hand swatting around aimlessly, when he had knocked it down. A black, faux leather journal with a ribbon bookmark attached.  
Ian had examined it carefully to be sure it was his boyfriends first. He hadn’t known Mickey to be one for expressing feelings. Although maybe when you’re that type of person who doesn’t talk about that kind of shit, it’s only natural to resort to writing about it to yourself.  
Then, without thinking about it, Ian had plopped down on their bed and opened the book with vigor. Mickey was at work so he didn’t have to worry about being caught any time soon.  
The first page was empty save for the words “Stay the Fuck Out” (reminiscent of the sign on his door that nobody ever listened to) scribbled in black ink. The next few pages were empty, and Ian was about to give up when he found the next one to be marked up in pencil.  
“Roses are red, violets are blue  
I like dicks  
How ‘bout you,” It read. Ian chuckled to himself, totally picturing Mickey a few years ago writing this to himself in an angst filled fit. In hindsight, it was probably an event with Ian himself that had caused Mickey to want to write this.  
“Who the fuck is ‘you’. Better be no one but this fucking journal… But if there is someone reading this, this was a test. No homo. Absolutely no love for dicks here.,” was scribbled at the bottom as though Mickey had been having a conversation with himself.  
The next twenty or so pages were either empty or filled with similar poems of sorts (“Violets are blue/Roses are red/I want Terry/To be fucking dead”). Finally, after skimming over the last few pages, Ian came across something that piqued his interest.  
There were eraser marks all over the page and the writing filled up every space on the paper in complete contrast to the last of his readings.  
“I was never one for sunsets. Hated them actually. They’re right on the cusp of when those who deem themselves too good for night life are returning to their immaculate dollhouse existences, and when those who take part in said night life are still patiently waiting for their friend the moon to come out.  
A silence so eerie is all that’s left in their wake.  
Chicago is crawling with lots of different types before and after.  
The thugs.  
The jocks.  
The rich.  
The poor.  
Maybe I’m one who fits neatly into one of those compartments, folded away snugly at the back of a drawer like a freshly cleaned T-shirt.  
But then there are those who don’t fit anywhere. Who get tossed into the closet.  
He’s the kind to get tossed into the closet. He’s so many things at once, it’s a bit overwhelming at times.  
He’s smart, but he’s got the dumbest smirk. It kind of makes me want to cry occasionally.  
He’s the type to think I don’t cry. I’m just a neatly folded t-shirt. No wrinkles, I fit perfectly into my drawer.  
But I do, I cry. I cry because he’s all those many things. I cry because I want to know each one, want to memorize them like his fucking geometry theorems. I cry because I shouldn’t.  
Sometimes, when he’s not paying attention, I look for a little too long  
And I notice:  
he’s got the reddest hair in all of America.  
It’s fiery, like the burning of a _thousand_ suns,  
And I think:  
Maybe I don’t hate sunsets, after all.”  
Ian didn’t realize he was tearing up until a drop fell onto the still open pages in front of him. Ian didn’t even know Mickey was capable of writing like that, but the fact that he had done so about him… he couldn’t help but cry. Carefully, he tucked the journal into the bed side table for safe keeping, strategically buried under a bunch of straggling items- mostly condoms and lube. Having read that poem, Ian knew this journal must be years old and long forgotten by now. Maybe if he didn’t mention it, Mickey wouldn’t notice it was displaced.  
\---  
A week went by without Mickey detecting anything. Ian himself had almost forgotten about the whole thing.  
That was until Mickey’s headphones went missing.  
“Yo babe, you seen my headphones anywhere?!” Mickey had called to Ian, who was in their bedroom, from the kitchen.  
“No. Have you checked the closet?” Ian suggested. Mickey was now in the same room, messing up the bed sheets that Ian was laying on looking for the item in question.  
“Hey I’m trying to read here,” the younger man whined, gesturing towards the book in his lap. Truthfully, he had zoned out ten pages ago and was now mindlessly scanning over the words, but still.  
“I need them for work, we’re doing a-” Mickey suddenly cut himself off from where he was rummaging around in the nightstand. Oh shit. His tattooed hands emerged, clutching the journal. “What’s this doing in here?” The brunette asked reproachfully.  
“Uh, I dunno?” Ian tried to lie, but the lilt at the end of his voice gave him away pretty easily.  
“You were looking through my stuff!” Mickey exclaimed, hitting his boyfriend’s on the knees with the journal.  
“Okay fine. I’m sorry I know I shouldn’t have; I was just curious.”  
“So what’d you like best, the one about how much I love dicks or the one about how much I hate pussies?” Mickey laughed, settling down on the bed next to Ian’s legs. Ian realized the older man clearly didn’t think he would’ve gotten as far as he did. But if his earnest expression hadn’t given that away for him, his words definitely did.  
“I uh… I liked the one about… sunsets.” Ian spoke so quietly he could barely hear himself, unsure if he should admit to his little snooping session.  
Mickey, however, clearly got the message. Suddenly the journal and any part of Mickey’s body that had previously been touching him were retracted, a sense of betrayal thick in the air. “You… you weren’t supposed to see that,” Mickey spoke weakly, as if the wind had been knocked out of him.  
“Mick… you don’t have to hide anything from me. I didn’t even know you could write- “  
“I can’t. It was just a stupid poem. I’m not hiding anything. Just… stay out of my stuff okay?” Mickey said, pushing himself off the bed.  
“Mickey wait. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to invade your personal space. But that poem was beautiful. You really can write. And frankly, I’m honored I was the subject.” Mickey turned around hesitantly in his place by the door. Ian felt sick as he waited for a response. The two never really fought much, so when they did, Ian didn’t exactly know how to cope.  
“You really think I can write?” Mickey finally asked.  
“Yes! That was beautiful. I wish I had more to read,” Ian stated.  
“Well… There are a few more I’ve been working on,” Mickey admitted.  
“Really?”  
“They’re nothing much… just stupid little ideas I have sometimes.”  
“I bet they’re amazing,” Ian said honestly.  
“Okay, I’ll read them to you, but you can’t laugh,” Mickey gave in, settling back down on their bed.  
“I would never!” Ian exclaimed in mock offense, a hand on his chest.  
And that’s how Ian spent the rest of the night having poem after poem recited to him, in utter awe of his boyfriend’s talent.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the prompt, anon! Hope you like it.  
> Thanks for reading!  
> Feel free to leave me a prompt at blueheartfandoms.tumblr.com


End file.
